


Fields & Fences

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Canon Compliant if the Writers Weren't Cowards, Alternate Universe- Canon Divergence, Basically Every Kind of Trauma You Can Think Of, Broken Bones, Community - Freeform, Found Family, Gardening, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Personality Given to Assorted NPCs, Recovery, Trauma, Yusufa Lives, character-driven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-11-27 09:29:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20946110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: While Primrose avenges her father and saves the world, Yusufa learns what it means to be part of a community— as well as a few other things.





	1. Quilts

**Author's Note:**

> me: i should focus on school
> 
> octopath: traveler
> 
> me: or not

Yusufa is no stranger to death.  
  
It litters Sunshade like spots on a leopard; tavern brawls turned lethal, mugging victims shanked and left to die in back alleys, drunkards who reached the bottom of the bottle and found only a sleep from which they'll never wake. When she was young, she heard, in whispers from the older dancers while she was pretending to be very interested in her chores, of a girl who didn't get back up when her head hit the brick, who spent her last moments in agony, bleeding out behind the tavern; a girl whose life slipped from her eyes while the world moved on and left her in the dust.  
  
(The inn cook, a grouchy older woman who nonetheless always turned a blind eye to Yusufa stealing food from the kitchen when Helgenish forgot to feed her, took her body and burned it, recited the rites as best she could, set her ashes free in the desert sands. She would never say it aloud, but Yusufa knows that she does it for all the girls that don't make it, and she knows how little it means, to only be able to do something for them after they've already died. Yusufa's always wished she could tell her that, while she can't speak for the other girls, knowing that she'll be there when it's Yusufa's cracked skull and dried blood and blue lips means a lot to her. It's a terribly sad thing, to die alone and unmourned, even if Yusufa's long since made her peace with the idea.)  
  
She isn't afraid, then, when she feels the knife between her broken ribs, when she falls from the ridge and hits the ground (she thinks it a mercy that it's sand she falls onto, rather than stone), when her vision grows blurry and dark. This is how she dies— she knew that the moment she covered for Primrose when she left to chase her vengeance.  
  
Her heart aches when she hears Primrose cry her name. She isn't afraid then, either— but she can hear that Primrose is.  
  
The stench of death in her nose. The sand in the wind, glowing golden in the afternoon light. Primrose, a blur of red and brown, the flash of her daggers and the cold, twisting tendrils of the dark magic she wields; she is fury, she is vengeance, she is terrifying—  
  
_she is beautiful_, Yusufa thinks, and it feels silly to her to think this while she's dying.  
  
Her hands smear blood on Yusufa's skin. There are tears on her cheeks. She pulls Yusufa close, cradling her head with a gentleness Yusufa had always assumed she was unworthy of. There's so much pain in her voice, so much fear.  
  
"Prim…" she chokes out. "You… killed them? You killed them all?"  
  
Primrose swallows hard, and nods. "Like dogs, Yusufa."  
  
Yusufa doesn't think she can say anything else.  
  
As far as dying goes, this is better than Yusufa could've hoped. She'd always figured her death would be like that girl behind the tavern— blood on the stone, a dent in her skull, her blood hot and red and sticky as she bleeds for the last time, and no one would know she was dead until the cook found her body in the morning, and took it to burn. She'd scatter on the desert winds and mingle with the sand, and that would be the last of her. Maybe weeks later, someone would idly notice she hasn't been around in a while, but ultimately? Ultimately, nobody would care. She'd lived in Helgenish's employ for nearly her whole life, but Primrose had been the only one who'd bothered to learn her name.  
  
Yes, this isn't such a bad way to die. Because Primrose is there, and Yusufa heard the fear in her voice, the desperation, the anger— Primrose will hold her as she dies and while her body grows cold. Primrose will remember her name, her story. Primrose will mourn her. So Yusufa's not too sad about dying, this being the case, even if she'll miss Primrose.  
  


* * *

  
  
Primrose's eyes snap open. Yusufa's breathing is rattling, but she's breathing. Her heartbeat is shallow, but it's beating. She's hurt but there's a chance she'll recover—  
  
She's hurt, but Primrose can save her.  
  
She'll need stitches. Primrose can't do that. Bandages, though, that she can do. Her eyes settle on Helgenish's corpse. His cape is bloody and Primrose would honestly rather leave it to rot than touch Yusufa with anything that smells like him, but it's her best option. She takes the waterskin off his belt and cleans the sand from the gash as best as she can, and then hacks the cape into strips. It's expensive silk, the kind they only make in Marsalim. Not the best bandage, but it'll do. She'll have to find something else when it comes time to change them. Real bandages would be ideal, but she's well past that.  
  
Primrose has never treated a broken ankle before, but there's a first time for everything. There were two days in school where her class spent an hour learning basic first aid, because the school considered this a very important thing to teach twelve-year-old noble girls, and she thinks she remembers at least part of it. (There's a chance, though, that the memories of the class were shaken loose during her years in Sunshade, and she's just filling in what she thinks might make sense. Memory is a fickle thing; Primrose knows hers is unreliable.) This doesn't help her confidence, but at least attempting to splint it is probably better than leaving it without support, right? If nothing else, she's glad that it's still pointing the right way, more or less.  
  
She loots a spear from one of the bodies of Helgenish's flunkies, breaks off the spearhead (which she keeps— she might need it later), and then breaks it into two pieces she can use as a splint. She manages this with gravity, her dagger, a nearby rock, and the spite that's kept her alive for the past ten years. There's just enough of the cape left that she can use it to tie the splint tight. It's not going anywhere.  
  
It hits her how crazy the idea is, but it's the only option. Not the stealing— Primrose hasn't been a noble for ten years, and knows how to pinch what she needs. But the leaving, running away from Sunshade with nothing but her knife and the clothes on her back, not to mention the fact that Yusufa needs an actual healer, which Primrose is not— _that's_ crazy.  
  
"Primrose, you're insane," Primrose mutters to herself as she carefully pulls Yusufa into her arms, keeping her head as still as she can. "You're in no state to haul yourself across the continent, let alone the innocent girl you've dragged into your mess that could and will die if you fuck up in the slightest. There's a mostly legitimate clinic in Sunshade that will probably treat her if you give someone a handjob in an alleyway, and they'll do better than you ever could. All you've ever touched crumbles and dies, and you're an idiot for thinking it'll be any different this time."  
  
She sighs, starting across the desert. East? No, mountains are a no-go— no matter how stubborn she is, she can't climb a mountain in her state. West, then, west is the Riverlands, with lush forests and pretty meadows and gullible hicks and barns to sleep in. "This is a terrible idea that can only end badly," she grumbles— but she'd be lying to herself if she left it there.  
  
She looks at Yusufa, then back to the horizon. "Luckily," she says, even quieter, as if she's afraid Yusufa, unconscious, will overhear. "You're worth it."  
  


* * *

  
  
Yusufa feels cold. This is odd, considering the fact that she's supposed to be dead. She's been told that death is peaceful, an escape from pain. It would follow that she feels pain because she ended up being proven unworthy of a blissful afterlife, which is no surprise to her, but at the same time, it doesn't feel quite right. She feels the stickiness of dried blood gluing her tattered clothes to her skin, the all-too-familiar taste of sand in her mouth. The world is rocking. If Yusufa had ever been on a boat, she'd say that it felt like being belowdecks during a storm. Whatever it is, she doesn't like it. These all seem, to her, like very world-of-the-living kinds of feelings.  
  
She feels sick. There's another point towards not being dead.  
  
Her eyes open. It's nighttime, so she's pretty sure there are stars overhead, but she can't quite see them. She's definitely lying on sand, which is uncomfortable, but almost reassuring— if there's one thing any Sunlands child knows well, it's sand.  
  
She tries to sit up. Something holds her back, other than the screaming pain in her ribs. "Hey, you're in no shape to move," chides a familiar voice. Her shoulders relax, just a bit— _Primrose_. It doesn't occur to her to be concerned that Primrose is there.  
  
"Prim?" she croaks.  
  
"Right here." Her head is on Primrose's lap. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Dizzy," she says. Her throat is dry— no shocker there. "Am I… I thought…" Her hand goes to her middle. There's some kind of fabric tied there. That would explain why she's not bleeding to death.  
  
"What, you thought I was just going to let you die?" Primrose scoffs. Her voice sounds hoarse. "Hell no. I tore up Helgenish's cape to bandage that gash. Here, I've got some water."  
  
Primrose tilts her head up to the right angle for her to drink from the waterskin. It's lukewarm and tastes like sand, but Yusufa's never been one to complain. (It tends not to go well if she does.)  
  
"It's another couple of days to the Riverlands," Primrose says. "I'm thinking Saintsbridge. There'll be doctors there, and people are scattered enough that I can make sure word doesn't spread too quickly, and bring people asking too many questions."  
  
"A doctor?" Yusufa repeats.  
  
"You're hurt," Primrose says, like it's obvious. "Doctors outside Sunshade are different. They won't refuse to treat you because of who you work for."  
  
She pushes Yusufa's matted hair from her face. "We're never going back there," she says. "No more masters, no more clients, no more sideways glances. Do you remember when we were kids, and I promised I'd take you away from that place as soon as I could?"  
  
"I thought you were crazy," Yusufa remembers, cracking a smile. "No one's that good a thief."  
  
"Turns out I don't need to be a thief at all," Primrose replies. "Because I'm making good on my promise."  
  
"I don't deserve you," Yusufa mumbles.  
  
"Bullshit," Primrose says gently, more gently than Yusufa's ever heard, even from her. "You deserve more than I could ever give you."  
  


* * *

  
  
It's a five-day walk to Saintsbridge. It's a three-day walk to the Riverlands border. If Primrose weren't nursing cracked ribs, a split lip, and a real shiner of a black eye, she could probably make it in two. It'd be risky, not to mention unpleasant, but she can do that.  
  
(She'd have a better chance if she didn't have Yusufa to worry about, but Primrose doesn't let herself think that. It's her fault that Yusufa got hurt so badly, her fault that she saw the vengeful, ugly side of Primrose that people aren't supposed to see. With all she's suffered, Primrose has no right to try and glue it all back together like some big hero, but she can't leave Yusufa to die. She won't add Yusufa to her body count.)  
  
So, three days in the desert. Alright. Sure. Piece of cake.  
  
They travel by night and rest by day, or whenever Primrose's knees start threatening to give out. Yusufa's in and out of consciousness the whole time— she'll wake to take a drink, try to get an honest answer out of Primrose as to how she's feeling, fail, and fall asleep again. Primrose always says she's fine, even if Yusufa can see that she isn't. She can see what Primrose doesn't acknowledge— new scrapes, new tears in her clothing, a limp that wasn't there before.  
  
"Just a few sand lizards," Primrose says. "Don't worry about me. I fought worse on my trip here and lived to tell, and I was thirteen at the time."  
  
"You say that every day," Yusufa mumbles. Primrose chooses not to answer that, probably because she knows Yusufa has a point.  
  


* * *

  
  
Neither of them are strangers to shivering through desert nights, or to ignoring hunger pangs and aching limbs, but what Primrose wouldn't give for a bedroll, or even just something she could use as a blanket. She hadn't expected to leave Sunshade so quickly, especially not with Yusufa in such a state. If they were anywhere else, anywhere more well-traveled, then she could steal from unlucky travelers, but no, it's just them and the sand. Really, anything would be an improvement.  
  
Yusufa, though. Yusufa's still warm in her arms, and Primrose would give anything for her to stay that way.  
  
"Hey, Prim," she croaks.  
  
"Hush," Primrose scolds. "You need your rest."  
  
"I've been resting all day," Yusufa replies. "_You_ need _your_ rest."  
  
"I'm fine," Primrose insists.  
  
Yusufa hums. Primrose thinks Yusufa is a gently gleaming jewel in the pile of sand that her life has become, but sometimes she wishes Yusufa didn't see straight through her.  
  
"You've always been so stubborn," she murmurs. "Like when we were kids, and you brute-forced your way through your stage fright."  
  
"It wasn't that hard," Primrose deflects. "I had to do it."  
  
"I know, you did," she says. They're close, as close as they can be— Yusufa's head under her chin, her arms resting over her back. Sharing body heat, like they've always done since they were fourteen and sharing a blanket in the corner of the dormitory. _We'll keep each other warm_, she'd said. It'd worked, and Primrose thinks that it was just as much a mutual reminder that touch could be good, too, as it was to keep warm. And when one of them cried late at night, when everyone else was asleep, the other didn't bring it up.  
  
"You didn't have to save me," Yusufa murmurs.  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "We're not having this conversation again. I won't leave you."  
  
"I suppose it'd be silly to try and convince you otherwise, at this point," Yusufa admits. She chuckles, her breath shallow and rattly, and it turns into a cough. She grimaces— coughing probably hurts. Laughing probably hurts, too. Everything, actually, probably hurts.  
  
"You know me," Primrose hums. It's not a total lie. Yusufa knows more of her than anyone else does, and Primrose plans on keeping it that way.  
  
Yusufa shifts in her arms, grimacing with the effort. Reflexively, Primrose holds her closer. She hopes she's not shivering too much.  
  
"How are you feeling?" Primrose murmurs.  
  
"Sort of like I'm dying," Yusufa replies, sounding blithe despite the rasp in her voice. "You know how it is."  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm not gonna let you die," Primrose replies. "Just you wait. We're gonna go to Saintsbridge, I'll find some doctor that won't ask any questions once I show him my tits, and you'll get better. Easy."  
  
"You've promised me lots of things," Yusufa says.  
  
"I don't go back on my word." Primrose brushes Yusufa's hair from her face. It's a mess, tangled and matted with dried blood. "Oh, and food. That's kind of important. I'll steal something when I can."  
  
"You won't hear me complaining," Yusufa says. "I never thought knowing the experience of eating every few days would be a good thing."  
  
"This'll be the _last_ time, if I have anything to say about it," Primrose says firmly. "You should rest. One more day and we'll be in the Riverlands. The going will get easier then."  
  


* * *

  
  
Yusufa wakes, and she sees green.  
  
Now she's sure she's dead, until she remembers she's in pain. It's somehow harder to believe that she's alive, though, when she's bearing witness to so much green.  
  
She racks her brain for some prior experience that might help her figure out what's going on. The closest thing she can come up with is the date farms around Wellspring, but date palms and whatever this is, while they're _probably_ both trees, are obviously different kinds of trees. She's also cold— way too cold for it to be Wellspring. She's out of ideas.  
  
"Where…" she manages. "Prim?"  
  
"Here," Primrose says, gently moving Yusufa's head so it's resting on her leg. "We just crossed into the Riverlands."  
  
"I didn't know the world was this green," Yusufa murmurs.  
  
"I can imagine it'd be a shock, after living in the desert," Primrose admits. "How are you feeling?"  
  
Yusufa makes a face.  
  
"That good, huh?"  
  
"Dizzy," she says. "Cold. Tired. The usual, I suppose."  
  
"You're running a fever," Primrose tells her. "Infection, probably. I stole some guy's cloak— does that help?"  
  
Now that she mentions it, Yusufa becomes acutely aware of the scratchy wool around her shoulders and against her cheek. She wishes she could say yes. She shakes her head.  
  
Yusufa thinks she sees Primrose bite her lip nervously, but figures she's imagining things. Primrose would never be nervous, especially not for her.  
  
"I'm sorry," Yusufa mumbles. "You're worried because of me."  
  
Primrose shakes her head, pushing her hair off her face. "Don't say things like that. None of this is your fault."  
  
"But," Yusufa protests.  
  
"No buts," Primrose cuts her off. "Rest while you can. It'll be harder later on."  
  
Primrose doesn't have to tell her twice.  
  


* * *

  
  
Ironically, traveling was almost easier in the desert. In the desert, you don't have to stick to the main roads— it's a good idea, since the beaten path is beaten for a reason, but you have the option of just going in a straight line, because it's all sand and nothing is going to stop you. In the Riverlands, it's less simple. If you wander off the path and don't know the area like the back of your hand, then you could get seriously lost. All the trees and streams start to look the same after a while. Really, if you've waded through one creek, you've waded through them all.  
  
In other words, Primrose is lost.  
  
She's also hungry. She's familiar with hunger, but it's annoying nonetheless. What makes it even more annoying is that the Riverlands are fertile, full of good soil, berry bushes, fish, wildlife. You can even eat the weeds if you're desperate enough. And yet, Primrose can't manage to catch a single thing, and she doesn't know enough about Riverlands flora to be able to tell what's tasty and what's deadly. At least water isn't an issue— if there's anything the Riverlands has plenty of, it's fresh water. Primrose remembers reading once, years and years ago, that a person can survive for two weeks without food. Putting this to the test doesn't sound particularly appealing, though, so she'll call that plan B.  
  
She often wonders what her father would say if he saw her as she was— for a while, it'd been the only thing on her mind, but she'd forced herself to stop thinking about it when it got too painful. Now, though, she thinks he'd know exactly what to do.  
  
She leans her head back against the tree trunk, waiting for the aching in her knees to subside. She's prepared to accept that it might not, but it'd be unfair to not even give it a chance. Yusufa's head is on her chest. Her eyes are shut, and if there weren't sweat beading on her brow and dried blood and sand in her hair, she'd look peaceful. She doesn't look healthy by any means, but at least she's alive.  
  
Movement. Primrose jolts, gripping her dagger tight. This isn't good— she might have to bolt, and she doesn't want to make Yusufa's injuries any worse by moving her too fast. The shape moves again, the figure of something between the river and the trees. It's definitely humanoid, and it's coming closer.  
  
Primrose points her dagger at the movement. "Show yourself," she demands. "Unless you want to test how good my aim is."  
  
"Hey, no need for that," the shape says. He steps into the light, his hands up. He's a young man— a boy, really, with messy blond hair and a scruffy chin, dressed in simple clothing with a loose green coat and a battered satchel. There's an iron hatchet on his back, the kind you'd use to split firewood. He has an accent— must be a local. "You folks okay? You don't look so great, lemme take a look—"  
  
"Don't take another step," Primrose growls. Her normal course of action would be to play the damsel in distress, but between the dried blood, the dirt, and the bloody knife in her hand, she probably looks a little too much like a half-feral vagabond for seducing him to actually work.  
  
"Alright, have it your way," the boy says. "Though if you don't mind me saying so, miss, you and your friend look like you could use a hand."  
  
He's right, but he doesn't have to say it. Primrose says nothing.  
  
The boy shrugs, lowering himself into a crouch a safe distance away. "I'm actually a doctor," he says. He keeps one hand up as he reaches into his satchel and pulls out a medicinal lodebook. Its leather is batteered and cracked, its edges fraying, its pages warped and the book itself bulging with extra notes stuffed between the pages. Its clasp has given out; it's kept shut with what looks like half a leather belt.  
  
Primrose narrows her eyes, but reluctantly lowers her dagger. "You're a doctor?" she repeats. "You know I have no reason to trust you, right?"  
  
He shrugs again. "Well, sure," he admits. "But, uh, if you don't mind me sayin' so, I might be all you get."  
  
He has a point. Primrose thinks she hates him.  
  
She sighs and slips her dagger back into its sheath, though she doesn't let go of Yusufa. "Alright, then. You're a doctor. But I hope you understand that if you try to hurt her, I'll stab you."  
  
"You have my word," he promises. "Anyway, the name's Alfyn. I'm from Clearbrook— we're not too far away from it, now. My buddy Zeph's the real brains of the operation, but I like to think I know a thing or two. What about you folks?"  
  
"Not your concern."  
  
"Suit yourself." He seems awfully accepting of all this. Primrose doesn't trust him, no matter how wholesome he looks. "So, what've we got here? Mind if I get closer?"  
  
"Fine," Primrose caves.  
  
Alfyn smiles politely and moves closer, kneeling in front of her. Primrose allows this, though she puts a hand on her dagger just in case.  
  
He frowns thoughtfully, putting the back of his hand to Yusufa's forehead. "Nasty fever," he mumbles. "I need anything you can tell me about…" he gestures vaguely to the both of them. "How y'all got to be like this."  
  
Primrose hesitates. She was raised better than to lie to a doctor, even if she doesn't trust him. "We're from Sunshade," she says. "A few days ago, there was… well, we're not going back any time soon. I'm fine, but she…" she bites at her lip. "I did what I could. She's injured. She's got a few broken ribs, and a broken ankle, and some scrapes, and she hit her head pretty hard. And got stabbed," Primrose adds. "That's kind of the biggest issue. I couldn't stitch it up, so I bandaged it. She started running a fever a few days ago— I think something got infected. I did what I could, but…"  
  
"You splinted it pretty good," he points out, nodding to the makeshift splint around Yusufa's ankle. "Any of this is better than nothing, I can tell you that. And you?"  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
Alfyn raises an eyebrow. Primrose very badly wants to tell him it's none of his business, but unfortunately, it is.  
  
"My knees hurt, I guess," she says. "She's not in any shape to walk, so."  
  
"You walked here? Five days straight? Carrying a whole other human being?"  
  
"And what about it?" There's probably no need for her to be so defensive, but Primrose didn't survive nine years in Sunshade by blithely taking everything anyone said at face value.  
  
"I'm just impressed," Alfyn says. "Hey, let me see your shin? Left one."  
  
Primrose, puzzled, shifts until he can reach it. He looks over it, then takes his thumb and presses on something in the center.  
  
White-hot pain shoots through her leg. "Ow!" she yelps, and reflexively yanks her leg back. "What was that for?"  
  
"Stress fracture," he says. "Thought as much."  
  
"Well, it's not like I could do anything about it," Primrose mutters.  
  
"Hey, don't worry," Alfyn promises, his voice gentle and reassuring. He's got good bedside manner, she'll give him that. "That'll heal right up once you're off your feet for a few days. I promise the both of you are gonna be just fine— soon as Zeph and I can get a full diagnosis, we'll start on figuring out the best treatment right away."  
  
He stands back up and offers a hand. Primrose looks at it, then back to him. She does not take it, and instead, slowly gets back to her feet, shifting Yusufa into her arms. Yusufa's eyelids flutter, but she doesn't wake. Alfyn awkwardly sticks his hand back into his pocket.  
  
"Right," he says. "Glad we agree."  
  


* * *

  
  
The first thing Yusufa notices is the lack of pain. It's still there, but it feels different— distant, numb. She's on something soft, definitely softer than the ground. It's warm, which is odd. Alright, _now_ she's pretty sure she's dead.  
  
It feels like she's indoors, but it's warmer and quieter than the dormitory ever was. There's no city noise, no creaking overhead while people move around upstairs, no indistinct murmuring, no muffled crying. She hears something, though— chirping, rustling. Birds?  
  
Her eyes open to a wood-plank ceiling. She smells something sharp and cold, but vaguely herbal, which doesn't make a lot of sense, but there are a lot of things that Yusufa just doesn't know. That's another difference between her and Primrose— Primrose had teachers, people to answer her questions and help her learn. Yusufa got tossed into the deep end of the Sunshade criminal underground and had to figure it out from there.  
  
She's under a blanket, wearing something that looks like a flannel robe, but backwards. The blanket's made of a bunch of little pieces of fabric stitched into pretty designs, and Yusufa would think that wouldn't make a very good blanket, and yet, here she is. It's actually a bit heavy for the weather, but you won't hear her complaining. So, no pain, quiet room, warm blanket— she's experiencing all sorts of new things today.  
  
She feels a surge of panic— Primrose. She almost lunges out of bed, but a familiar touch stops her before she can.  
  
"Careful, there," Primrose says. The panic evaporates. Yusufa lets the tension leave her, which it does, but not without the parting gift of the pain that comes when you try to use muscles attached to broken bones.  
  
"Prim," she says. Her throat hurts. "Where…"  
  
"Clearbrook," Primrose tells her. Her black eye looks a lot better. She's sitting in a chair next to the bed with her hair in a loose braid, a blanket around her shoulders, and a book face-down on her lap. "Little town a couple days from Saintsbridge. Not really where I'd aimed to go, but." She shrugs. "We got lucky."  
  
"Oh." Her head hurts. Everything hurts, actually. Funny how that works. "Am I dead?"  
  
"Not if I have anything to say about it," she says. It's a very Primrose thing to say, and it's actually more reassuring than being told she isn't dead. "You have eight stitches, a concussion, and several broken bones, but you're not dead."  
  
That explains a lot. "And… you?"  
  
"Don't worry about me," Primrose says, reaching out and brushing Yusufa's hair from her face. Yusufa wonders when she started doing that, but now that she thinks about it, she does it a lot. Yusufa also notices that it moves easily— at some point, someone must've washed out all the grime. That would explain why she feels a little like a boiled vegetable. She'll take it, though— anything is better than sand.  
  
"How do you feel?" she asks.  
  
"Could be worse," Yusufa admits. "You?"  
  
"Oh, I'm just fine," Primrose replies. "The apothecaries insist that I stay off my feet for the next few days, something about stress fractures." She stops, then when she speaks again, it's softer, gentler. "It was touch and go for a bit there. They told me you're lucky the infection wasn't too severe. That Alfyn stumbled across us before it could progress past anything a staff could do."  
  
"They had to use a staff?" Yusufa repeats. "Oh, no, those things are expensive…"  
  
"Actually, they're not," Primrose says. "Helgenish was just a cheapskate and a liar. Also, not the point. The point is, you'll be okay."  
  
Yusufa turns her head back so she's staring at the ceiling. She's not dead. She'll be okay. It's a good thing to hear when you're regaining your capacity for serious thought, but strange after nearly a week of drifting in and out of consciousness, lingering on the threshold between life and death.  
  
By all accounts, though, she probably should've died. It figures that even the world of the dead doesn't want her.  
  
The door opens. Primrose goes quiet. Yusufa can't see her, but she knows Primrose well enough to know that she's putting her hand on her dagger. "Morning, miss," the newcomer says. It's a young man— maybe one of the apothecaries that Primrose mentioned.  
  
Primrose stays silent. The boy is unfazed. "Well, now, look who's back in the waking world," he says, his voice coming closer to Yusufa's bedside. She turns her head, trying to follow the sound, but he appears in her field of vision before she can try. He has a head of messy hair a pale shade of brown, skin dotted with freckles, and soft cheeks. He also looks like Sunshade would chew him up and spit him out. He's smiling, like seeing Yusufa awake and processing the world around her is a big achievement.  
  
"Let's see, here," he says. "This'll involve some touching, just so you know."  
  
"Are you the doctor?" Yusufa asks.  
  
The boy shrugs. "What passes for a doctor 'round these parts, yeah. Name's Zeph. What about you?"  
  
"Yusufa," she says.  
  
"That's a lovely name," he tells her. He takes her chin, but gently, which is a strange feeling. He tilts her head to the side, shines a light at her face, and hums, coming to some conclusion that Yusufa supposes will be a mystery to her. "Pupils look good," he says. "Feeling dizzy at all?"  
  
"Not really," Yusufa says.  
  
"Ah, that's a good sign," Zeph says. "Let's get you sitting up. This might hurt a bit…"  
  
He's right. Yusufa clenches her jaw and gets through it— a method that's served her well. Her head spins when she's sitting upright, but it fades after a second or two. Zeph puts one hand between her shoulderblades and the other on the pulse at her throat.  
  
"Try to breathe for me?" he requests. "Just as much as you can."  
  
Yusufa tries. "Sorry," she manages. "It hurts."  
  
"Well, busted ribs will do that," Zeph replies. "I've cracked a few myself. Never fun. You hungry?"  
  
She hesitates, then shakes her head.  
  
Primrose reaches over and takes her hand. "It's okay," she promises. "We're not in Sunshade anymore."  
  
She's right. It'll take a while for that to sink in.  
  
"Tell you what," Zeph suggests, putting a few pillows behind her— real pillows, just like that, like he has all the feathers in the world!— and helping her lie back down, propped up from behind. It still hurts, but she figures that if she were back in the dorm, it'd hurt a lot more. "I'll get y'all both some soup, and you can eat your fill. Try not to go too fast. From what I could pry out of your friend here, it's been a while since your last good meal."  
  
He takes his leave, hanging his apron on a peg by the door. Yusufa slowly takes in more of the house. It's not large, and it's just as cluttered as the dorm was, but in a different way. Instead of costumes and makeup, it's bundles of herbs and notes pinned to the boards of the wall, tables full of loose notes and open books. The tension leaves Primrose's shoulders.  
  
"So," Yusufa says. "What now?"  
"Now," Primrose replies. "You stay here and get better."  
  
"But what about you?"  
  
"I'll stay with you," she says. "Come on, you think I'm just gonna leave you here? After we came all this way together?"  
  
Yusufa looks at her. "You have other things to worry about than me, Prim," she says. "Your lead. Your father."  
  
Primrose falters. Yusufa knows it's probably not right of her, but she feels some satisfaction in that she's the only one who knows Primrose well enough to throw her off her guard like that.  
  
"I'll be okay," Yusufa promises.  
  
"That's what you said when I left the last time," Primrose murmurs.  
  
"I mean it," she insists. "You said so yourself, we're not in Sunshade anymore. Please, Prim, I know how long you've been waiting for this. Don't let it slip away because of me."  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "We don't need to have this conversation right now. All that matters in the short-term is you getting better, and I'm going to stay here for that. We can talk about longer-term plans when you're back on your feet."  
  
It's as good as Yusufa's going to get. She sighs. "And so you can recover from walking for five days straight, right?"  
  
Primrose waves a hand nonchalantly and picks up her book again. "I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. You're more important."  
  
_You're more important_. Maybe if she says it enough, Yusufa will start to believe it.  
  


* * *

  
  
Days tick by. Time reorients itself into something Yusufa's used to— minutes and hours and days, the same as they were in Sunshade, measured differently but amounting to the same. She sleeps a lot, for the first few days. When she's strong enough, she starts to move herself around on the crutches Alfyn digs out from a closet, though this isn't for very long, and her knees hurt. So it goes.  
  
Alfyn leaves on a journey to be a traveling apothecary, one day. He wishes Yusufa a speedy recovery, grins and nods to Primrose despite the fact that she doesn't return the gesture, and hugs Zeph at least twice before he's finally able to walk away without looking back. Yusufa finds it cute. Seeing them almost reminds her of herself and Primrose— almost. Except they're boys, and apothecaries rather than dancers, and their situation seems to be quite a bit different than Primrose and Yusufa's. Yusufa's not entirely sure where the familiarity is, but it's kind of reassuring.  
  
Yusufa wakes in the middle of the night— she often does, now that she's no longer sleeping all day. She's always been a light sleeper, and it's almost a relief that she's getting the tendency back. Primrose is sitting up in her cot, which they pushed up next to Yusufa's so Primrose would stop sleeping in the chair. She's awake, as usual. The only times Yusufa's seen Primrose asleep are when she was injured or sick back in Sunshade, and she let herself rest her head on Yusufa's lap.  
  
"Can't sleep?" Yusufa asks. She reaches out. Almost without thinking, Primrose takes her hand.  
  
"I think I should leave," Primrose says. "You're well enough that I don't have to worry about you suddenly dying or something, and Zeph seems… decent enough." Which is high praise, coming from Primrose. "I'll miss you."  
  
"I'll miss you, too," she says. "But I know how important it is to you. You should go follow that lead, and not waste your chance tending to me."  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "It's not a waste, not if it's you," she says. "I don't know. It's my fault you were hurt in the first place. I should stay with you until you're all healed."  
  
"Don't say that," Yusufa chides.  
  
"You know it's true," she says. "If I hadn't gotten you mixed up in my revenge business, then you wouldn't have gotten hurt."  
  
"Then I'd still be in Sunshade," Yusufa replies stubbornly. "Maybe M— Helgenish is gone, but things aren't going to change that easily. Someone else has probably stepped up into his place and they're just as bad. And if I hadn't tried to help you, then I'd still be there."  
  
She looks at her knees under the quilt— that's what the kind of blanket is called, she's learned. "And, well," she adds. "Dying is leaving Sunshade in a sense, too, isn't it? Just more the way I'd always expected."  
  
"Oh, Yusufa…" Primrose's voice is gentle, achingly so, gentle as her touch as she pushes Yusufa's bangs from her face. Yusufa doesn't deserve words so kind, doesn't deserve Primrose at all, but gods if she doesn't want to curl into her voice and never leave. "You deserved a better way to get out of Sunshade than almost-dying."  
  
"Well, it all worked out in the end, didn't it, Prim?" Yusufa says optimistically, though her voice is thick.  
  
"I suppose it did," Primrose murmurs. Yusufa can feel her, but she somehow feels ten miles away. As if she's sensing Yusufa's thoughts, Primrose scoots closer, until Yusufa's head is tucked under her chin. Primrose kisses her head like a benediction, like a blessing, like a mark that'll keep her safe when she leaves.  
  
_Please_, Yusufa thinks. _Don't go._  
  
"I'll be okay," she promises. "And I'll be here, if you get tired of your home in Noblecourt."  
  
"Oh, forget about Noblecourt," Primrose scoffs. "That place hasn't been my home since my father died. When I come home, it'll be to you."  
  
Tears swell up in Yusufa's chest. There's no talking after that.  
  


* * *

  
  
She wakes to a sunrise over Clearbrook, and Primrose is gone. She figures this is for the best— if she'd tried to say a real goodbye, Yusufa would've cried, and Primrose would never be able to make herself leave.

Yusufa breathes. She's alive, and she's not in Sunshade. That'll take some getting used to, but she thinks she can handle it.


	2. Journals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to octopath for having blurbs of information on basically every townsperson and minor quest-giving or quest-related npc in the game, even if they don't have actual names

The sun rises over Clearbrook, beams sliding through the shutters in lines that fall across Yusufa's blanket. Her knees hurt, and her chest hurts, and her back hurts, and her bad ankle hurts, and her head hurts. Just another day, then. 

Zeph makes breakfast, like he always does. Yusufa can finally eat something other than soup, which is a relief, though the ham and eggs that Zeph has for breakfast smell _very_ appealing. Not that she's going to express this, of course. She knows better. His younger sister, Nina, chatters while she checks Yusufa's temperature and changes her bandages. She's doing well, for a girl who'd been recovering from a nasty snake bite when Yusufa arrived.

Primrose has only been gone for a few days, and yet Yusufa feels her absence. There's empty space where she used to be, only air when she reaches for Primrose in the middle of the night. It's hard to get to sleep without her there. They never fell asleep together— it was always Yusufa who fell asleep first, while Primrose stubbornly kept watch until exhaustion forced her to shut her eyes— but she was always there, at some point. In Sunshade, Primrose had always been nearby enough that Yusufa could wait an hour and see her, or finish up her chores quick enough they could sneak away together. Now she's gone, and even if Yusufa could run, she could never run fast enough to catch up. 

Yusufa never remembers her dreams— she considers this a blessing. But she knows when she dreams, because she'll wake up crying and clutching the bedcovers, reaching for someone that isn't there. She knows Primrose is gone, but when she's just woken up, when the feelings from the dreams are raw and aching, it's like she's just left all over again. 

She doesn't remember her dreams, but she knows she dreams of Primrose. 

For once, the waking world is a reprieve. Broken bones hurt, but they're things that tonics and powders can fix. Yusufa would very much like to take more than the perscribed dose and sleep the days away, but after the first time she tried, she woke up in a daze half a day later, and Zeph stopped leaving it out on the bedside table. (Shame, too. It'd almost worked.) The only downside is that it's boring— she can use crutches, but it's painful enough that she only does if it's absolutely necessary. Broken ribs being what they are, Zeph says she's not gonna be moving very much for a couple of months.

"Really, the bones are your biggest problem now," he says. "The stitches are healing up nicely, and the concussion's on its way out. But, hey, those couple months will pass before you know it. After that, we can start getting you back on your own two feet."

Yusufa frowns over her oatmeal. (Oatmeal— that's another new thing she's learned about.) "If my ankle is healed, then I can just get back to walking, right?"

"Well, not exactly," Zeph says. "You heard of the phrase 'use it or lose it' before?"

She shakes her head.

"Well, basically, if you don't use your muscles, then they'll get weaker," Zeph says. "Use it or lose it. How long ago did all this happen, do you remember?"

"Primrose said three weeks," Yusufa says. "I don't really remember. Sorry."

"Figured I'd ask," Zeph shrugs. 

"I-is there anything I can do to help out?" she asks, before she can lose her nerve. "I know I'm not supposed to move, but there must be something, now that I'm not sleeping all the time." Despite her best efforts. 

He blinks. "What, like, chores and stuff? Nah, you're a patient. Wait, is it because you're bored?"

_Finally, you get it_, Yusufa thinks. She knows better than to say that. "Well…" 

"Nah, I gotcha," Zeph promises. "What do you like to do?" 

Good question. "Well… I was a dancer," she says. "I wasn't very good at it, though." 

Zeph grimaces. "Yeah, that's not happening. Anything else? Anything you can do sitting down?" 

"Um…" 

"No, huh?" He sighs, scratching his head. "Well, we'll figure something out, yeah? Don't worry about it." 

"If you say so." She looks at her knees under the bedcovers. They're propped up under a rolled-up blanket while her broken ankle, bundled in a new splint, sticks out from under one corner. She's still not used to how soft it all is. Between Primrose's absence and the bed, she's pretty sure the only reason she's been able to sleep at all is because of whatever's in the pain tonic. 

She really hopes he'll figure something out soon, because she's out of ideas.

In the time Yusufa's been a patient, she's pretty sure she's seen everyone in town in Zeph's clinic for one reason or another— bad joints, headaches, hay fever, scraped knees, burns, broken noses, or even to pick up medicine for someone else. Yusufa keeps her head down and hopes no one pays any attention to her, but it's a small clinic, and Clearbrook hasn't gotten the message of what she was in Sunshade. 

There's an older woman in today, having problems with her bad knee that the usual salve just isn't fixing. Zeph hums and says he'll mix up something with a little extra kick to it, so she can wait for a bit on one of the cots while he does that. Just Yusufa's luck, she picks the next cot over.

She eases herself down with a heavy sigh. She's dressed just as simply as anyone else in town, but being able to read people has kept Yusufa alive, and something about her seems different. The way she carries herself, the way she talks. It kind of reminds her of Primrose, though she can't put her finger on why. 

She notices Yusufa looking at her. Yusufa flinches and looks back at the quilt. She's taken to counting up the different pieces of fabric used to make the patterns, which is kind of a stupid idea since, while she knows some of the numbers, no one actually taught her which order they go in.

"You don't need to be afraid," the woman says, a bemused smile on her face. "I don't bite." 

Yusufa nods. She doesn't look up. 

To her relief, the old woman seems to give up. She sets her satchel beside her on the cot and takes something out— a little book, like the kind Primrose was reading, but plainer, without a picture on the cover. It's brown leather, a little battered, with cloudy brass corners and a ribbon sticking out from the spine. She takes out a thin black stylus and, to Yusufa's surprise, starts writing in the book. 

She seems to notice, and looks up before Yusufa can look away. Yusufa freezes, and braces herself for a scolding or worse, but none comes (none ever comes, in Clearbrook— paradoxically, it just sets her on edge even more, like when she finally does inevitably mess something up, the fallout will be even worse). 

"Curious?" she asks. Her bemused smile is still there. "You look like you've never seen a journal before." 

She hasn't. Yusufa looks down, her ears pink. There's _another_ thing she doesn't know about that's common knowledge for everyone else. Way to go, Yusufa. She makes herself nod in response to the older woman's statement. 

To Yusufa's surprise, the older woman moves to the chair beside Yusufa's cot and shows her the book. Yusufa has no idea what the words say, but they're very pretty. 

"I was just writing down something I remembered for my grocery list," the woman says. "But you can use a journal for anything. Notes, reminders, drawings… anything you can think of." 

"Oh," Yusufa says. "Um, I can't… I don't…" Just say read. Why can't she just say it. What's wrong with her. 

"You can't read?" the woman guesses. Her smile turns to a puzzled frown. 

Yusufa pulls her shoulders in. Now she's done it. She's broken an unspoken rule she was too stupid to notice. "Sorry," she whispers, as if that'll help. It never did in Sunshade, why should she even bother here? 

"Well, then," the woman says. "It's a good thing you've run into me!"

For a moment, Yusufa's too surprised to keep her head down. "What?" 

"I happen to be a teacher, of a sort," she says. "My name is Professor Bateste. I used to teach at the university in Atlasdam, though that was a long time ago." 

So that's why her bearing reminded Yusufa of Primrose— nobility, or a level of wealth, at the very least. "So, then, um…" 

"What am I doing here?" Professor Bateste guesses. Yusufa nods. "I'm retired, technically. But it seems I can't ever escape teaching." She chuckles, and Yusufa bites her tongue to keep from apologizing again. 

"Of course," she adds. "That's only if you _want_ me to teach you to read and write, dear. I completely understand if you'd rather focus on getting better first."

"No, I—" Yusufa says, without thinking. She catches herself. "Um. I would like that." Finally, something to actually do. 

"Alright, Professor, I've got your salve," Zeph calls, walking over with a little jar. "Oh, hey. Making friends?"

"Ah, yes, I seem to have caught the attention of your patient," the Professor says, standing back up. "Thank you, dear. I'll be back tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow?" Zeph frowns. "Are you planning on having more knee pain?"

"Professor Bateste is going to teach me to read," Yusufa says. She lowers her head. "Because, well, I can't. No one taught me." 

She braces herself for something— a look of scorn, or pity, or some mix of the two. But none comes from Zeph, only cheerful acceptance. 

"Sounds good to me," he says. "Bet it'll make recovery a lot more interesting, if you've got something to do. 'Sides, you've got a good teacher. I mean, she taught me, and I'm not the smartest tool in the shed." 

"Certainly not, if you believe that," Professor Bateste replies. Yusufa's not entirely sure how that works. "I'll be back tomorrow with my supplies. You ought to get used to the sight of me, Doctor Gale— I imagine I'll be around quite a while."

Professor Bateste makes good on her word. She brings over battered workbooks made for children learning their letters and numbers, and tablets and charcoal for her to work them out herself. Yusufa traces the thin, elegant strokes she made in the workbook with her shaky hand. It feels better to hold it in her left hand. She didn't know people could do that.

Yusufa knows the concept of teaching. She did have _a_ teacher, after all— she went to dancing lessons like all the other girls, once she looked old enough. Professor Bateste isn't like Madame was, though. There's no snapping, no shouting, no practicing until her feet blister. But at the same time, Yusufa doesn't feel as if she's being treated like the six-year-olds the workbooks are made for. Professor Bateste is firm without being cruel; encouraging without being patronizing. It's really kind of extraordinary, how much one can learn with a good teacher.

Letters get sorted into words, then broken apart into sounds. Yusufa traces them and then writes them on her own, tongue between her teeth, trying very hard to stick to the margins lain out on the paper. Yusufa sounds them out, letter by letter, reading sentences that aren't very interesting but don't really have to be (Professor Bateste says interesting sentences come later). She learns about the annoying exceptions to sounds, and then that the language they know is basically made of exceptions. She'll learn to read it anyway, because she still has another month of bed rest and if she gives up now she'll die of boredom. Besides, she's gotten this far. She might as well see it through.

Summer nights in the Riverlands are hot and muggy. Zeph pins mosquito netting over the windows and keeps them open in the hopes of a breeze. Downstairs in the clinic, on the same cot she's lived in for the past few weeks, Yusufa listens to the nighttime of a place she never could've imagined when she was younger— crickets and cicadas and wind in the leaves, roosters in the morning and owls at night. 

It's still hard to get to sleep, knowing Primrose is gone, but falling asleep to the nighttime symphony isn't so bad. 

Yusufa's letters get neater as she practices. She reads longer words, thinks with bigger numbers (now that she knows the order they go in— Professor Bateste had been puzzled how she managed to live twenty-three-ish whole years and learn some of the numbers but not what they mean, but she didn't ask, to Yusufa's great relief). She soon finishes all the workbooks and moves to reading and copying sentences from real books, books that get a little more complex (and interesting) each day. Eventually, she runs out of things for the Professor to teach her, and then comes the dreaded question of _now what?_

Professor Bateste hands her a journal. It's empty— not new, but not some ancient leftover, either. People give her notebooks all the time, she says. She can't use all of them. 

"I don't know," Yusufa mumbles. "I doubt I'd write anything of interest." 

"It's not about interest," the Professor replies. "You'll never need to show it to a single soul. Unless you're aiming to write novels, which is different discipline entirely from what I'm qualified to teach." 

"What did you teach?" Yusufa asks. "I don't remember if you told me." 

"Teaching." Yusufa didn't know you could do that. "I taught witless rich youngsters how to explain things to other people that didn't know as much as they did." 

"I bet that was…" Yusufa reaches for a word. "Fun?" Not that one. 

Professor Bateste waves a hand. "It was occasionally rewarding, but given the amount of my former students I've seen in academia, writing theses that read like absolute nonsense to those outside the field, I clearly didn't do enough. Trust me, though," she adds. "You're a refreshing change of pace." 

Yusufa ducks her head at the praise. "Thank you," she mumbles, because she's pretty sure that's what you're supposed to do. 

"Anyway, I think you'll find quite a bit of benefit in keeping a journal," Professor Bateste says. "Though I can't tell you how to use it. It's your choice." 

A lot of things have been her choice as of late. Yusufa kind of wishes they weren't. If she doesn't have a choice, then doing it right means avoiding punishment. Choices mean she could do the wrong thing. Choices mean risk. Risk is for people who can afford to fail. Sunshade doesn't work like that— you either do what's ordered of you, and do it right, or you regret it. Every risk that fails takes you one step closer to being the next body on the pavement. It's a fact of life in Sunshade, one that Yusufa had beaten into her before she knew what any of it meant. 

Choices mean risk. Choices aren't for people like her.

"What do I write about?" she asks. 

The Professor shrugs. "The day you've had, what you dreamed about, letters to people you know won't get them. Your thoughts on the book you've just read. Words that you don't know the meaning of so you can look them up later. I use mine as a grocery list. There is no wrong way to use a journal." 

_I can probably manage it,_ Yusufa thinks. She doesn't say that. 

"I'll try," she says instead. 

The Professor looks satisfied. "Well, then, I hope you enjoy it. And if you'd ever like to learn more, do let me know." Yusufa has no idea if she'll actually be able to do that, but she'll try.

* * *

Yusufa wakes at the crack of dawn, and can't get back to sleep.

Maybe it's because of the heat, or the pain, but she's pretty sure it's because she misses Primrose. Her absence aches like a bruise. Zeph says that saying how she's feeling will help her feel better, but saying she misses Primrose doesn't do anything but remind her how empty the space next to her is. 

Maybe she's afraid. Yes, that might be part of it— there are all kinds of monsters and beasts in Orsterra, and they're not just sand worms and coyotes. There are bandits and raiders and kidnappers and killers, thieves and swindlers and liars and muggers. There are men more despicable than any nasty Sunshade patron, men who answer to another Helgenish, or maybe someone even worse. And then there's high cliffs, deep rivers, frozen mountains, the unrelenting sun— all things that even _Primrose_ couldn't hope to fight. The longer Yusufa thinks, the more things she can come up with, and she's sure that there are even more she doesn't know. Primrose is the strongest person she knows, the toughest, the most stubborn, but even Primrose is only human. Primrose isn't immune to a missed step on a Cliftlands bridge, a sudden chill in the far north, a sickness that medicine and staves can't cure, or even some raider that got in a lucky hit. Primrose is stronger than Yusufa will ever be, but there will always be something stronger. 

(She never thinks, though, that Primrose would forget her. She never thinks that Primrose would forget the promise she made, that once she's completed her quest, she'd come back. Because Primrose had promised, and the thought that Primrose would have lied to her never once crosses her mind. Yusufa has seen many horrors, and faced many abuses and injustices, but she's never had the experience of being promised something, only to have it yanked away— until Primrose, no one ever bothered to promise her anything at all.)

It's still dim in the clinic, but the rising morning light lands on the journal on the bedside table. Professor Bateste's words echo in her mind— _letters to people you know won't get them_. She picks up her pencil and puts it to the first page. 


End file.
